Common Angel

My son's doctor looked at me
as he explained,
"hospice neither hastens nor postpones death."


She could be the woman in a farmer's kiosk
wearing jeans and a T-shirt
sniffing grapefruit
who sidesteps to make room for you
who lowers her chin and meets your eyes
without smiling.

She could be the one who,
in the light of fading quarter moons,
or in brittle middays,
clothed in white, slides past burn tight hands,
rough-edged bones, unscented thin skin,
cold sweats, particles of spilled blood,
pouring ammonia and warm oil;

Who holds urns of ashes
for those with blank faces
locked above twisted shoulders,
and who hums flatly
to those who cannot speak again.

You could talk to her
as she weighs ink on pages,
as she weaves gauze into chains
but you will not.

You know
you would shiver
at the sound of her voice
saying your name.

Patti Marshock is an oncology nurse in Scottsdale, Arizona. She has two teenage daughters. Her work has appeared in A Cancer Poetry Anthology and online at 2 Riverview. 
E-mail at Marshock4@cs.com

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